One of my favorite poems is The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe[1]. I’ve read it again not long ago and some of the sentences there really hit me. Maybe because they remind me of my anxiety, my sadness.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”

This feeling, that catches you unprepared while doing your day to day things. You notice it creeping just a little too late. Just a second later and you could have fight it, but now it’s too close, caught you off guard. It’s tapping at your front door now.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;
— This it is and nothing more.”

You’re off guard but still trying to avoid it, the terror, the anxiety. Like closing your eyes and mumbling that there’s no monster under the bad, just a visitor.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Hello?”[2]

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “”Hello!”—
Merely this and nothing more.

You’re surrounded, the anxiety, the sadness, are within you. You try and take look there in order to understand that blackness inside of you, try to see if it has a form, something you can grab and throw away. Nothing helps, what you throw at it, what you shout at it, nothing helps.

And the feeling[3], never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!

It’s here to stay this time. It’s not going away. You will slowly lose your mind.

It doesn’t matter the numerous times that I thought that this feeling won’t go away and they did, the next time such a feeling will rise it will be here to stay. I guess that this is the nature of this blackness, makes you think that you will never get it out. Nevermore.

[1] This sentence might indicate that I read poems all the time, knows a lot of them, and from all of them I like The Raven. I’m familiar with just a few poems, and really like this one. Don’t get me confused with a poem expert.[2] The actual word in the poem is “Lenore”, a little out of context for this post since I’ve excluded some of the poem.[3] The actual word in the poem is “Raven”, changed due to it being out of context for this blog post.